In the Absence of Fear
by Aduro
Summary: This is Lord Draco's story. Fear is just as important as love. Love encourages us to be better. Fear makes us human. The absence of either can create monsters. (For those of you unfamiliar with my Code series, this won't make a whole lot of sense.)


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do own late night headaches. Too much caffeine. Must drink more water….

Author's note: So – this is important. This is what kept me from updating The Decoding all those years ago. You see, Lord Draco is more than just a Boggart. I was beginning to realize that as I was writing it, and well, this will make the next chapter of the Decoding make way more sense (it will be updated shortly). But in taking a break to write this, I lost focus, and then motivation, and well…you get the idea. But I will be updating the Decoding shortly. No later than two weeks.

Anyways, have you ever wondered why Lord Draco is such a strong Boggart? This is his story.

oooo

Boredom was a heavy, still ocean. Blue, slate blue, with tiny ripples of navy and pinpricks of light where the sun danced on the miniscule crests of waves.

Boredom was drifting on that ocean, and no matter how he flailed or screamed or struggled against the thick water, he didn't move. Nothing changed. Even the sun sparkled in an even, predictable pattern.

Boredom sank into his head, seeping through the folds of his brain like clawed fingers, until he knew he would never be sane again.

A small voice in the back of his head said it wasn't boredom. It whispered "lost" instead. It tapped out "mistaken" with every pulse and "hopeless" with every exhale.

There were drugs to deal with that feeling. Drugs to send him floating above the ocean as the sky twisted and writhed, and to color the earth in fluorescent shades. Drugs to slow his mind, to pull him underneath the ocean to rest in a numb, muffled world. Drugs to spark his brain, new thoughts flashing through, exciting and breath-taking.

There were drugs, but not to be taken. Not yet. He'd already used earlier in the week. He may be dragged down into the spiral of mind-altering substances, but he was going to control his descent.

But it was hard not to use again.

And he was _so bored_.

A potions set bubbled in front of him, a menagerie of glass and copper beakers, some sitting over flames, some over cooling pads. A labyrinth of glass tubes connected those beakers, feeding potions from one to the other, until he had three perfectly similarly solutions, varying only in base temperature.

Draco stared at the set-up in front of him. Massive and complex and it offered his desperate mind no reprieve from the boredom.

The potions still had three hours to go.

His mind had plotted the next three steps. And based upon that outcome, he had four diverging steps, but here he was, forced to sit and watch and wait, because the potion still had three hours to go.

Desperation seized, faltered, and was overthrown by a tantrum.

His wand lashed out and a wind-charm swept the whole thing to the floor. Glass shattered and burst, the potion hissed and sparked, and flames shot up, bright blue and hot. For the next minute, trying to control the fire and the corrosive properties of the potion, he wasn't bored.

But only for a minute.

And then he was bored again, staring at the stain on the floor and cataloging all of the work he'd have to repeat. Finding a counter to Veritaserum was slow work, and Snape was already so far ahead of him. He hated being behind. Maybe he'd just scrap the whole thing.

But then what would he do?

He regarded the mess; turned on his heel. He crashed open his doors with his usual dramatic flair and glanced at the Death Eater stationed by his door.

"You," he demanded, "get someone to clean up my room."

The Death Eater, whose single purpose was to cater to his whims, ducked his head and scurried away to find a house elf.

Draco laughed at the obvious display of fear. This was his fourth guard, the others having begged for a reprieve, or volunteered for a dangerous mission, anything to get away from him.

Draco followed the guard towards the main rooms, needing a distraction, any sort of distraction. Even with this purpose of seeking out amusement, he was fidgety, twitchy. His skin itched and his palms pricked. He rubbed them down the soft velvet of his coat. He couldn't wear anything coarser. Angel-Flight made his skin sensitive, made it sting and itch, a sure sign he was falling towards withdrawal.

But he needed to hold his base line. He needed to be a high-functioning drug addict. If he wasn't, it could mean his death. He was living in a Death Eater strong hold and in constant contact with Lord Voldemort. He needed to stay sharp, to stay aware. Especially because he was trying to orchestrate both the Death Eater and the Resistance army without either being aware of it.

He passed a few Death Eaters in the hall. They read his agitation in his strained face and disheveled hair. Bad things happened when he was bored. Usually there was mayhem. Quite often there was pain and screaming. People occasionally died.

He detoured by Lucius' study, but didn't enter. He simply stopped by the doorway, hanging, waiting.

His father looked up from his work.

His eyes were different. For so long, Draco had prided that he came first in his father's mind, after Lucius Malfoy himself of course. But after Narcissa…well, Lucius had loved her more than Draco had originally thought. He hadn't planned on that when he sought to right a multitude of wrongs.

Or maybe Lucius could see the need in his face, the need that had been reflected in her face. Maybe he was a shadow of unpleasant memory, or simply beyond his respect.

Lucius Malfoy looked back down at his papers and Draco left.

He never stayed. Never stayed to see that Lucius always looked up to stare after him.

The dungeons were dark and filled with screams, but were actually quite clean and sanitary. Draco demanded that they be so. He wasn't going to descend into filth and squalor, and he told Voldemort as such, straight to his face and quite sincere.

Voldemort had laughed, thrown his bald head back and laughed. But he conceded to Draco's demand.

Not that Draco was often in the dungeons. He didn't care for them, or for torture. What was the point? No one could lie to him and he could read their secrets in their word choice and body language. There was no reason to inflict pain when misery would find the prisoners anyway.

But Voldemort was here, was usually here. Voldemort liked inflicting pain. That was the difference between them when all other lines became blurred.

Draco stepped into the torture chamber, not speaking but silently pleading for something to stir his mind, to spark his intellect.

Voldemort turned and saw his need, saw his desperation for something more, a desperation that Voldemort knew too well. But the Dark Lord's desire was for power, control, and fear. Draco's was for stimulation.

"Bored, my Dragon?"

Draco waited for a prick of irritation at the ridiculous nickname, but there was nothing. He was too far gone.

"Come here," said Voldemort, beckoning him forward. "See what happens when I cast the Cruciatus."

The prisoner's head was cut open, the top half of the skull removed, revealing the pale beige of brain matter. Draco was drawn forward out of clinical curiosity.

"Crucio!"

It was interesting to see how the brain visibly trembled under the curse. Tiny electromagnetic currents and impulses that should have been undetectable without equipment sparked along the surface, and made the brain quiver and the prisoner scream and jerk.

The curse ended; the prisoner sobbed.

Draco recognized his face, but couldn't recall his name, which meant he'd never seen it or heard it. It was easy to place the prisoner's face though. It had been March 13th. Six years ago. In the paper. Draco read it while eating breakfast at Hogwarts. The prisoner was an Auror.

"I might be able to recreate the same results," said Draco. "An electric current, applied here and here." He gestured to the open skull. "No magic necessary. Not everyone can wield a Cruciatus."

"A useful tool," said Voldemort. "The curse can take its toll."

It was difficult to use the Cruciatus frequently. It was a taxing, heavy spell and left the average wizard exhausted after a few hours – casting it, that is. It left the victims exhausted in a matter of minutes.

But Voldemort seemed to suffer no ill side effects. If anything, he seemed to feed off the black magic.

oooo

It took him an hour to draw up the plans. It took him two to construct the machine. Staring at the finished product, he found no desire to actually use it. He knew it would work. What was the point of proving himself?

Instead he collapsed into the large armchair in his office and stared at the fire. He needed another dose of Angel-Flight. No one would have to know. He often stayed cooped up in his study for days. And really, wasn't it their fault in the first place? If they wouldn't be so insipidly dull, he wouldn't be driven to such lengths.

But no. He couldn't have another, not just yet.

But there were other things he could have. A tea laced with powdered unicorn hoof. A pipe stocked with the dried leaves of the spring mandrake. An intravenous injection of thestral blood and dittany oil.

There were Muggle drugs as well.

Draco let his head drop onto the cushioned back of his chair. He wasn't supposed to end up like this, starving for another dose of drugs. An addict, unable to find amusement with anything in life. He used to enjoy his experiments. He'd taken a wrong turn somewhere in his life.

His fingers dug into the leather of the armrests. There was a time, once, when he had a confidante. Someone he could talk to. Someone who might have even enjoyed talking with him, someone who cared.

He jerked himself to his feet. He couldn't think of it anymore. He was going mad.

He paced violently, hands rising to his head and then back down to clench the fabric of his trousers. He didn't want anymore, but he was drowning in what should have been, what could have been if he hadn't – he needed to stop thinking, he needed –

A knock at the door and it opened.

It opened without his permission!

He whirled, spurred on by this intrusion, ready to slice the offender into a thousand pieces.

Goyle recoiled and thrust a girl in front of him.

"The Dark Lord said to give her to you!" he babbled. "He said you would want her, said I should bring her right up. Nott brought her in, just now."

The girl was on her knees. She was scrawny and her hair was clenched in Goyle's giant hands.

Draco sneered. "What the hell am I supposed to do with her?"

Did Voldemort think he needed a plaything? Did he think Draco got off on it?

Goyle shrugged his beefy shoulders and shoved the girl forwards. He closed the door too quickly in his desire to get away and it caught his own shoulder. Draco snorted a laugh and then stared at the girl on the ground. She was still kneeling. Draco laughed again, hollowly, because this is what the others thought of him, that he was like the Dark Lord, needing to maim and defile and inflict to be satiated.

"It's a load of bollocks," Draco told the girl, anger twisting his voice. "I'm not that far gone."

He turned away, ready to mediate further on the benefits of using other drugs to get him through to the morning, when something flickered in his mind. Something hadn't been right about the prisoner. Her body language was off. She had been kneeling, yes, but her shoulders hadn't slumped into despair, nor had they been hunched in fear.

Draco slowly turned around. His head tipped to the side.

The girl wasn't kneeling because she was afraid, but because she was injured. Her right arm pressed her left to her stomach, holding it steady. She didn't want to jar it. And no, she wasn't scared or defeated, nor was she jutting her chin up in the air in fleeting defiance. She was simply waiting in the most comfortable position she could find.

He stepped forward, and she finally looked up.

Freckles. Hazel eyes. A straight nose, even features. He knew her.

"Weasley," he said.

"Yes," she said.

A few bruises on her face were just starting to form. Her hair was dirty, which was why he didn't immediately recognize the vibrant red. It was tempered with mud and darkened with moisture. Her clothes were wet too. It must be raining.

"Ginny," he said. "Short for Ginevra." He stepped forward once more. "You never dated Potter," he said, stating a fact that had struck a wrong chord with him at Hogwarts.

The Weasley girl stared for a moment and then blinked.

"Really?" she asked. "That's what you care about? Not the Order's Headquarters or what our numbers are, but did I date Harry?"

No, she wasn't scared at all, was she? This could be something then. It could mean diversion.

"Your arm is broken," said Draco instead of answering her. "What did it?"

"Curse," she said.

"Right," he said. "One moment."

His office was large, and in truth, it wasn't an office. It was a laboratory. Three large tables were set up, one for research, with scrolls and parchment and ancient books. The second was for his potions, currently sporting a completely new set, the old glass cleared away. The third was for objects and magical machinery he tinkered with.

There were shelves on every wall, holding countless books and his completed experiments. He went to the medical shelf and pulled out a vial of putrid orange liquid. When he came back, she had moved to the fireplace at the far end of the room, a sitting room of sorts. She was perched on the ottoman, her arm still cradled carefully.

"Here," he said, uncorking the vial and handing it to her.

"Should I ask if it's poisoned?"

"Why would I poison you so soon?" he countered.

She conceded his point with a one shouldered shrug and drank.

Draco took a seat across from her, on a large, plush armchair. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands were clasped lightly, no longer twitching or curled into painful fists. He watched her, watched as her arm realigned, and how she screwed her face up in pain and didn't try to hide the few tears of pain, just wiped them away once the pain ebbed. He watched her smooth her hair back as best as she could. And then she met his gaze.

There was something in her eyes that didn't belong, something that seemed strangely dark and familiar. He grabbed her face, ignoring the way she flinched away at his sudden movement, and stared into the hazel eyes. But in looking for it, the darkness ebbed, and flitted away, like the shadow of a bird's wing.

Draco pulled back and scrunched his face in frustration. Ginny stared at him, cautiously. She seemed to realize that he wasn't the boy who'd tormented them all in school. He was something different. Something worse, and maybe greater.

"Are you hungry?" Draco asked.

oooo

He didn't ask her outright. That'd be taking the mystery away. Instead he kept her.

She slept in his bedroom. It was connected to his laboratory by a door, and she was nervous at first, and frightened, but he never used the bedroom, never slept except in short naps on the sofa by the fireplace. He ordered the house-elves to find her clothes. They brought the old ones of Narcissa's, and he cursed them. They cowered and shrieked in pain, and Ginny watched and didn't beg him to stop.

"Why not?" he asked.

She shook her head and he knew. She wasn't going to be throwing herself in front of the house-elves because she couldn't afford to care about them. Her one goal was getting out alive, and that meant choosing her battles. He'd thought Gryffindors would never learn such cold practicality.

The house-elves returned with some of Pansy's clothes. They fit her well but she quickly became a distraction. He hadn't realized how attractive she was. He couldn't remember her being that attractive in Hogwarts. After two days he began letting her wear his jackets and sweaters over the provocative attire. She snuggled into the soft fabrics and thanked him. He rolled his eyes at the pointless gratitude.

She took meals with him, or rather, he sent for her meals, and then sat down with her and began eating on schedule as well. But it wasn't because he wanted the company. It was just that the presence of food was calming; it told the primal areas of the brain that everything was going well, and if she was relaxed, he could study her better.

It was actually quite civilized. She made small talk and he quizzed her on her views of philosophy and her best subjects in school and her plans for her future (if she had one). And he tried to make sense of her answers, tried to understand why her eyes looked oddly familiar.

Sometimes she accompanied him around the manor. He made it clear she wasn't to be troubled, but he still kept her away from Voldemort and Claire and Bellatrix and Lucius, just because then he'd have to talk about her and explain his growing obsession with the girl.

For the most part, though, he kept her. Kept her on a chain.

Not a prison chain. It was a thin silver strand that fastened around her wrist and was anchored in the bedroom. It kept her on the far end of the laboratory, away from his work. She could sit in the small alcove with the fireplace and sofas, or retreat into the bedroom or bath. He wasn't a fool. He couldn't figure her out, so it made sense she might surprise him.

She never asked for the chain to be taken off, even though he knew it was annoying. She tugged at it, and tried slipping it over her hand when he wasn't watching. But short of cutting off her own hand, she wouldn't be getting free.

"You don't have to look so smug," she told him over lunch on the twelfth day.

Lunch was lamb and potatoes and green beans and salad and fruit. Draco was drinking his lunch. He poured her a glass of wine, but she wasn't touching it. He'd poured his glass full, drank it, and started on his second.

Draco smiled at her, took a gulp of wine, and then asked, "Which did you like better, playing Seeker or Chaser?"

She wasn't thrown by his questions anymore. Nor was she disturbed by his apparent desire to drown himself in alcohol or overdose on illegal substances.

"Chaser," she said.

"You like being part of a team," he analyzed out loud. "But you also want to take action, to be responsible for earning the points."

"Everyone reads those fake quizzes," she told him, unimpressed.

It was true. Such little trite assessments were popular in magazines. If you're a Beater, you enjoy releasing tension through physical means and may be a little too aggressive. If you're a Seeker, you enjoy being the center of attention, but may also alienate friends in the process, etcetera, etcetera.

Draco leaned forward, and delved deeper. "You don't like being a Seeker as much because you don't want to be solely responsible for losing a game."

But no, after he said it, he realized it was wrong. She would be able to handle the disappointment and would simply try harder next time.

"Let me amend that," he said. "You don't want to be solely responsible for winning a game. Why's that? Modesty, Weasley? You shouldn't be. Not with your looks."

She gave a surprised laugh. "Flattery, Malfoy?"

He grinned and leaned back in his chair. "You're a smart girl."

He watched as she absently tugged at a strand of her hair. She knew it was the hair. She would be pretty without it, to be sure. But without it, she was simply a cute face and a cute, not stunning, figure. But her hair was red and gold. Like fire, it caught the eye and drew everyone closer in.

"Looks aren't everything," she said.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, but he already knew what her answer would be, trite and cliché, so he drained half a glass of wine and waited for her sentiments.

He looked up when she didn't say anything. She was watching him.

"If looks were everything," she said, "you wouldn't have to be using drugs, would you?"

And that wasn't what he expected her to say. He grasped for a response, but she continued.

"It's eating away at you, from the inside out. You could be indestructible, but you're poisoning yourself. How long do you think you can keep it up?"

"Being a Seeker sets you apart from your team," Draco said, deciding to ignore her question. "So does being a Keeper. Do you know why your brother liked being a Keeper?"

She looked down. "Ron's dead."

"I know," said Draco, with an unconcerned shrug. "But when he was alive, he didn't feel special very often. Being a Keeper set him apart. It made him the savior, if just for a moment. It also speaks to the fact that he had to take things that were thrown at him to a whole new level, but the dynamics of your family don't really interest me."

"Then why am I here?"

"Don't play coy," he snapped.

She withdrew; put her fork down and pulled her arms to her lap. Draco cursed himself, too hard and too fast. He shouldn't have spoken about her family, even though knowing her preference for Chaser opened up a new chapter in her psyche. She wanted attention, but not that much. She didn't want to be the star which was odd, because as the only girl in a family of boys, and as the youngest, she should be used to it. Instead, she wanted the comfort of two other teammates; she wanted to share the attention.

But regardless of what he'd learned, it wasn't enough. He couldn't figure it out and he needed more information. He needed it more than a third glass of wine, which he poured himself anyway.

She watched him pour, and he didn't like the way she was looking at the glass – with trepidation and aversion – so instead he picked up his fork. He ate a few bites and waited for her to continue her lunch as well.

"Why do you like Quidditch?" he asked.

"I like to be active," she said. "And I like showing the boys up."

She smiled and he grinned, delighted at how quickly she recovered.

"I do like being part of a team," she continued, "and I like winning. I like the sensation of flying, the way your stomach dips when you drop too fast."

He listened, soaking in every word she said, every inflection, every gesture. Every glint of her hair.

"I don't like getting grimy, at least, not very often. And I hate playing in the rain."

"I don't think many players enjoy it," said Draco.

"What about you?" she asked.

Draco shook his head without considering the question, but she raised her eyebrows. Draco stopped and thought for a moment, recalling the feeling of raindrops on his skin, sometimes pelting his face or sometimes just a fine mist. He recalled squinting through the water and the slick wood of his Firebolt beneath him, threatening to lose his grip and send him hurtling down.

"Yes," he said. "I liked playing in the rain."

Ginny smiled at him. "You looked the type."

He didn't think there was a type, or if there was, he thought she might be one of them. He tipped his head to the side in question.

"I don't like thunderstorms," she told him. And then, as if imparting a clue to him, "Thunderstorms scare me."

It wasn't the key to the puzzle, but it was a part of it. The longer she stayed, the more he realized what a large puzzle it was, and he wondered if he'd ever see all the pieces.

oooo

She was bored. Draco spared her a glance as he measured out a portion of moonstone.

It'd been over four weeks since she'd been brought in. She must have been bored before, but she hadn't mentioned it. She didn't draw attention to herself, knowing that she was a prisoner and that one of these days she might be sent to the dungeons or executed or tortured. She was also looking for a way out.

She sat on the arm of the couch, as close to his laboratory as the chain around her wrist would allow. She watched him work.

He didn't mind, it truly didn't bother him, but at the same time, he was very aware of her scrutiny.

He dropped a piece of moonstone in the three copper cauldrons, and then gave a quick spin.

"Can't take your eyes off me?" he asked.

"You wish, Malfoy."

He gave her a wink. "Say the word, Weasley."

"You're high again."

He shrugged. "I offered to share."

He always did, just to see if she would ever say yes.

"Are you sure you're a genius?" Ginny asked. "Taking drugs seems counter-intuitive."

Of course it was, but he'd justified it to himself. And now she wanted to lecture him? He shot her a glare, irked. "There are books to read."

He watched from his periphery as she tensed. He'd gotten angry at her only once since she'd arrived. Twice if you counted the time he snapped at her over lunch. The other time had been far more spectacular. She had tried to escape. It was a good plan; it truly was. He'd been out – out of country actually, not that anyone else was aware of it, and she'd gotten the lackey from the hall to take the chain off of her. He'd known it was coming, the escape attempt. He'd come back just in time, a fluke of luck, and he'd thwarted it while completely drunk.

But it had also been a stupid plan, one that involved her running through the Death Eaters' midst. If Draco hadn't interceded, she had an eighty percent chance of being killed by them and a five percent chance of making it out alive, but horribly mangled.

And he'd been frustrated by that. It'd been a stupid move and he'd yelled and thrown things and finally threw her into the bedroom and locked the door. He'd kept it locked for two days while he took enough drugs to knock him nearly senseless.

So close to having none of his questions answered.

She grew bold now after a few moments of silence. "I'm a little restless."

"Thought your escape plan would have been enough excitement for the month," he muttered darkly.

"You stopped most of the excitement."

And she sounded genuinely upset about it. The corner of his mouth rose and he turned. He knew the feeling of boredom after all.

And it had been ten days since her attempt. And he hadn't been attending to her consistently. Now that she was there in the room, a larger, more difficult problem, he found it easier to concentrate on his experiments. Maybe because she asked about them, and sounded interested in them. Maybe because she sometimes sounded interested in _him_, like the confidante he had lost those years ago. The same shade of red…

"You should have tried the drugs," he said, dismissing her and the unhappy memories.

"You know I'm not the type to take them. Why do you keep offering?"

"To see if you'll surprise me."

"I'm not going to sacrifice my own well-being just to surprise you."

She had a point.

"You have a point," he told her. "And I want you to know, Weasley, you can't leave these rooms without me. And the Death Eaters won't let a second escape attempt happen, so don't try it. You'll just die. Understand?"

She nodded, but he hesitated.

"I think I might live to regret this," he told her. "I'm getting a very bad feeling."

"Malfoy, you're still recovering from the Angel-Flight and you decided to smoke spring mandrake."

"I do that all the time."

"And then you had two glasses of brandy."

Stimulants and depressants along with the residual hallucinogenic.

"Oh," he said. "I did, didn't I?" He laughed at his thoughtlessness. "I really shouldn't be working on this right now."

"You aren't going to hurl, are you?"

"Please, Weasley. Would I ever be so uncouth?"

She shook her head. He undid her chain and gestured her to the table.

"Keep stirring that," he said.

oooo

The fire flickered brightly.

Draco carefully placed the vial on the table in front of him, ready to savor this moment. His skin had been itching and prickling for the past two days. His head had pounded since he woke up that morning, or rather, got up from his short rest on the couch sometime at four am. He'd been waiting for this, afraid he wasn't going to make it the whole day, but here it was, and he was ready.

Even now, his body eased in anticipation. His heart slowed, his hands stopped shaking. He watched the ribbons of silver swirl in the purple potion. He licked his lips, reached forward, and picked the vial up. His fingers easily popped the cork and he inhaled the heady, acidic fumes.

He tipped his head back, tipped the bottle back, and emptied it in one long swallow. It burned on the way down and he exhaled in pleasure. He let the vial fall to the carpet and stared at the ceiling, waiting for it, waiting –

It hit with all the force of a cloud. A soft, fuzzy blanket over his mind and then his vision swirled and his ears picked up music. A new reality opened up before him. The heat of the fire was radiating outwards in beams not unlike sound waves. The light from the fire was dancing in a pattern that would become discernable if he stared hard enough, but the clock on the mantel was ticking, distracting him, and suddenly he could see the gears clicking, and he understood the human race to be just like that clock, intertwined and ticking until the time when it must be wound again.

"Why do you do it?"

He turned. She was standing in the wide doorway to the bedroom, hair tussled and glinting in the firelight. She was the pattern the fire was dancing to. It all made sense.

"Why do you make the fire dance?" he asked her.

"You're high."

"You say that a lot."

"Because it's true, a lot."

He laughed. "I like you," he said. "You're funny. And sometimes witty. Not now, now you're just a bore. And a drag. Why don't you go back to bed?"

She didn't. Instead she came closer, stepping right beside the couch.

"Is it that bad?" she asked.

"Is what bad?" he asked.

"Whatever it is that dragged you down. You're a genius, Draco. Why are you taking Angel-Flight?"

He frowned. "And you're nosy too. I don't like it. Go away, you're disrupting the heat waves."

"You turn into a child when you're high," she said. "And I don't want to play your mother."

He laughed. "If you were my mother, you'd be giving me the Angel-Flight."

She paused, on the verge of a very unpleasant realization.

"You're almost there," he whispered. "You're almost there, one more conclusion…,"

"Why did your mother give you Angel-Flight?" she asked.

He applauded. "Perfect deduction, Weasley. But it shouldn't be in the form of a question."

"But I want to know," she said. "Why would she give you Angel-Flight?"

Draco tipped his body over to sprawl on the couch. She moved to sit on the armchair across from him. He idly watched the fire, and then her face. She was close, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. He could make out nearly every constellation in her freckles.

"My mother liked to hold parties," he said. "Beautiful parties. Expensive parties."

He told her everything about Narcissa. How gorgeous she was. How he'd met her the first time when they were having a family picture. He'd been five. He told her about the affairs, how he'd been a trap, a perfectly groomed, perfectly behaved trap to attract men with her powers of childrearing. And he told her about being locked in his room. And then about being drugged.

He told her about Narcissa's end. How he started making her potions, but making them stronger. And how he had cautioned her, told her they were stronger, but her addiction won out, like he knew it would. And she fell so fast, taking double and triple and quadruple the strength until her body couldn't take it anymore. So he hadn't really killed her. Just hastened the natural order of things.

And Ginny didn't give condolences, or denounce him for causing Narcissa's death. She listened, and then when he was finished, she asked, "Is that why you wait so long?"

It wasn't what he expected her to say. He needed to stop expecting things about her, because she always seemed to surprise him.

"Holding the base line," he said, and then hummed the base line of 'Imperious Minds', a wizarding heavy metal classic.

She didn't say anything more, and gradually he stopped humming because he could see the orbital path of the planets. She stayed with him until the sun came up and he was settled enough in his high to be productive.

oooo

"What's this?" she asked.

Draco glanced up from the boiling beaker and then back down. "Cruciatus machine," he told her. "Works just like the curse."

There was a beat, and then, "What, in the name of Merlin, could you want with this?"

Her voice was low and calm, but there was just an edge of unspoken fury and disgust that had his head snapping up. He'd never seen her look so. Her face was pale, her jaw clenched, and her eyes demanded that he explain before she struck.

She looked powerful and enthralling.

Draco put the beaker down, not caring that it was his morning's work because she was his real project, and this was a new reaction from her. New and fascinating.

"It's a machine," he told her.

"Why would you even create such thing?"

She was repulsed, and his skin pricked in irritation. He'd expected repulsion from her.

"Because I could," he said.

"It has one purpose," she told him. "One sick, perverted, horrible purpose."

She was getting dramatic. He rolled his eyes, displeased with the development. It was predictable and so very Gryffindor. It was boring.

"I haven't used it," he said.

"It was created to cause pain."

"But it hasn't caused any."

"But it can do nothing else."

"It's academic," said Draco.

"Knowledge for knowledge's sake?" she scoffed. "You now have the knowledge to cause pain with the flick of switch. How can you defend that knowledge?"

"Because knowing how something works can also mean learning how to counter that," said Draco.

"So counter it."

"What?"

She pointed at the machine. "Learn how it works in order to stop it from causing pain, or destroy it."

He laughed at her. "And if I don't? Come on, Weasley. I could turn that machine on you, right now, and leave it until all of your higher thought processes have fried."

She wasn't cowed by his threat. She just stared at him with that same, tedious fire in her eyes.

"Don't be like this, Weasley," he said. "You're boring when you're like this, all Gryffindor and cliché and so damned obvious!"

The last was a frustrated shout, and he tossed a book across the room. If she was boring, then he was bored again. He didn't want to be bored again.

And there was something in the back of his head saying that she might be right.

He ignored it and pointed a finger at her. "Next time you speak to me like that, I will use the machine on you."

And he didn't know if he was lying or not. Because she made him feel guilty, and he shouldn't have to feel that way.

She stared at him and shook her head. "Threats, Malfoy? Now who's being cliché?"

She turned on her heel and walked into the bedroom.

She did not slam the door.

Draco turned back to his work and saw that his potion had coagulated. He hated having to repeat himself.

oooo

He was bored. Again.

No, not bored. Because he still hadn't learned her secrets and he was still actively engaged in dissecting her every move, but he was dissatisfied. He was restless and there was a headache gathering behind his eyes.

He drank two glasses of brandy but it didn't temper the pain. He squeezed his eyes shut, pinched the bridge of his nose, and let out a frustrated exhale.

He wasn't speaking to her. She wasn't speaking to him.

It had been three days.

He felt that, for the first time, she was being stupid, and it grated on him. She'd been so smart before, so clever, so…not what he had originally expected. More Slytherin than Gryffindor. He had thought, those first few weeks, that she was like him. But this moral outrage was trying. It was tedious.

And yet, it triggered something in him. That feeling of being adrift, being lost, had begun plaguing him again. Maybe it was her. Maybe he should get rid of her, wipe her memory like he'd…

But he wasn't thinking of that any longer. Not even though he could trace all of his regrets back to that one moment in time.

The pain flared and he hunched forward, elbows on his knees. He opened his eyes to stare at the floor. He willed the headache away with no positive result.

"You look like my brother," she said from the doorway.

He flinched. How could she know?

He heard her step closer and he turned, squinting in the light and she gave him a small smile.

"Percy," she said. "He gets tension headaches."

"Migraine," said Draco, turning away.

She moved to sit beside him on the couch.

"Sit on the floor," she said.

"So you can strangle me?" he asked, without humor.

"No," she said. "I won't strangle you."

Maybe it was the brandy. Maybe it was because he was bored. But he moved off the sofa and sat on the floor. She scooted behind him, and then her fingers pressed on his neck, rubbing in circles, and then she kneaded something in his back.

A spark of pain flared up and he hissed, jerking away, but her hands followed, now soothing the muscles, and the pain ebbed back.

"See?" she said. "Tension headaches."

"Don't sound so smug."

His head dropped forward, allowing her to work easier on his neck. Even though she promised, he wondered if now she would strangle him. He wondered if he cared if she did. He wondered if _she_ would care if she did. He couldn't help but think that she would on some level. After all, she was caring for him right now.

"Your brother, Percy," he said.

Her hands paused.

"He's in France," said Draco. "Small wizarding town in the east. He's trying to get aid for your forces, but with the ceasefire, no countries are pledging just yet. They'd rather let England sort itself out."

"How do you know that?" Ginny asked.

"Sent him there," said Draco.

Her hands pulled back and he turned around, wondering what she'd make of him.

"You helped him?" she asked.

"I helped myself," said Draco. "If this is going to work out the way I want it to, I'll need him."

But only for awhile. Percy was too popular in the government. He'd be elected Minister and foul up the rest of the plan.

He watched her process this, watched her think. She knew what the rest of the resistance knew. That they'd been both lucky and devastated in this war. Their plans had been foiled, but never outright disasters. It was as if their moves had been anticipated, but not by Voldemort who would have crushed them. Instead, it was like all of their work was simply being neutralized.

Her brow furrowed. She looked away and carded the hair back from her face. She looked back.

"You can't fight a war by yourself," she said.

Draco grinned, because he knew she'd reach the right conclusion. "It's working so far."

"And when it's over?"

"I'm dead or I win," said Draco.

"What do you win?"

Draco threw out his arms, gesturing to the room but indicating the world.

"Everything," he said.

"Do you want everything?" she asked.

"No," he said. "But there is a good deal I do want. It's easier just to have it all, don't you think?"

He watched her, gauging her reaction.

"But…_why_?" she asked, dumbfounded.

"I have reasons," he said.

She was silent again. He could feel her thinking. It took her longer to draw conclusions than it would for him, but at least she was thinking. So many people couldn't even do that.

"You have reasons or you had reasons?" she finally asked.

And she didn't draw the same conclusions he would. No, instead she went straight to the heart and motivation of it all, not concerned with how, but with _why_. Draco turned back around, wishing he hadn't brought up the subject. But her hands had felt nice on his shoulders, and he had wanted to offer comfort in return. Why had he felt that need to reciprocate?

Her hands settled on his shoulders again, and then his neck. He felt her warmth, her smooth skin. He closed his eyes.

"This stalemate," she said, "the ceasefire. You orchestrated that, didn't you?"

It wasn't really a ceasefire. Merely a pretense of one. One that kept the hostilities from claiming more civilians because then this would be a full-scale war, and he was battling odds enough as it was.

"Yes," he said.

"Whatever use it was, it's been dragging on for too long. You must be losing your advantage just sitting here."

There wasn't a question in that, so he didn't respond.

"You've lost your reasons, haven't you?"

He still had them. He just wasn't convinced of them anymore.

He heaved a sigh and wished that he never had let her off her chain, never let her see so much. That bad feeling he had on that day hadn't been the drugs. It'd been his own common sense.

Funny. He thought he'd drowned it in the drugs by now.

oooo

"Don't open it," he told her.

She didn't. She even stepped back from the chest. "What is it?"

"Boggart," he said. "They run loose all over the place and I can't get rid of them myself."

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "They don't transform for me. And I don't have the patience to blow them out."

Boggarts, in their natural state, were a mist thicker and damper than a ghost. They were hard to contain and hard to destroy when they didn't transfigure. And they left an unpleasant aura in the room.

"They don't take on your fear?" Ginny asked.

Draco shrugged again. "I've nothing to be afraid of."

"Nothing?"

He looked at her and grinned. "Ginny, I'm going to rule the world. What is there to fear?"

She looked troubled. He grinned at her again. He was feeling good today. He'd reached his scheduled dose of Angel-Flight and was enamored with the world once more. She'd even stayed with him. Kept him and his hallucinations company.

"Look," he told her, holding up a vial of a musty-smelling potion. "It cures Lycanthrope."

She was startled out of her concern. "It does what?"

"Cures it," he told her. "Of course, it has to be taken before the first transformation, so you have either a day or a month, depending when in the cycle you get bit. After the first physical change, the potion is useless. I haven't been able to pinpoint why. I think I need to account for the genetic mutations in the werewolf."

He frowned, now unhappy that he'd admitted its flaws.

"Draco, that's incredible," she told him.

Her voice was light and impressed, but he shrugged.

"It's alright."

The chest with the boggart in it thumped and he scowled at it.

"I sent for the house-elves five minutes ago," he seethed.

"Were you ever afraid of anything?" she asked.

"What? Oh, yes, I think. I think it was the dark once."

"But then it…stopped?"

He nodded. "One day, I realized I could rule the world. After that, what is there to be afraid of?"

"Death?" she asked.

He laughed. "Trivial. What's yours?"

"Thunderstorms."

Thunderstorms again. Why?

But she was just as perplexed as he was, even more so, because she looked at him, worried.

"It's not right," she said, "to never be afraid. Fear is…it's like love. It changes us and drives us. We react to it and share it and it makes us human."

She was adamant.

He laughed.

oooo

"So, this is the girl."

The drawling, seductive voice and sudden appearance in his room without fearing his wrath. Only one person, Claire.

He didn't like Claire, so he turned with a grin, because nothing irked her more than not being taken seriously.

"Claire!" he exclaimed. "Just in time. Come here, here."

He gestured her forward with flapping hand and thrust a bottle of an evilly red potion into her face.

"Drink this!"

She batted it away, her cool demeanor cracking around his manic style. She glared at him and then turned to Ginny who was at the other side of the table, reading a book as she absently stirred his potions' experiment. His third for the morning. Damn that counter to Veritaserum. He really didn't need it, did he?

Ginny looked up at Claire's arrival, and then looked to Draco, but she didn't say anything.

"She's a pretty thing," said Claire, stepping forward and casting an eye over Ginny. "Didn't think you went for red-heads. Or is it because she's the enemy. Does it make it more exciting? Do you tie her up or make her call you 'Master'?"

Draco laughed. "You're projecting." And then he screwed up his face. "And now I have an awful image in my head of you and – oh, Merlin, that's just – I need a mind-wiping potion. Right. New idea. Weasley, scrap that cauldron. We've got something else to work on, as quickly as possible."

"Stop the theatrics, Draco," said Claire. "I just came up because Tom was starting to worry. We haven't seen you in so long."

"I'm busy," said Draco. "And no, I know what you're thinking, but not busy with her."

Claire pouted and then walked around the table, sliding her hand along the surface as she did. "I don't see why you have to be experimenting all the time. You could take more interest into our lord's battles, or at least show up to deserve the indulgences he gives you."

She had always been jealous of his rise to Voldemort's right hand. She often tried to break Voldemort's trust of Draco, but he'd managed to slip past her plans. He didn't like the way she was eyeing Ginny now.

"He gave her to you," said Claire. "At least you could say thank you. At least you could have the consideration to get information from her. But I can see your interests lie elsewhere. Do you think he is pleased?"

Draco dropped into a chair and kicked his feet up on the table. "If our lord wished information from her, he would have instructed me to do so. Until then, I've better things to do, and no, before you say anything, she isn't on my to-do list. Honestly Claire, your one track mind is _so_ boring."

Claire turned, her eyes sparking once, before she whirled around and left, the door slamming behind her. Draco laughed and tipped his chair back, balancing it on two legs.

"She's tedious," he announced to the ceiling and Ginny. "We'll have to watch out for her."

oooo

He floated his fingers in the air before lightly setting them on the piano keys. Angel-Flight made the room sway a bit, like he was on a boat. He tilted his head, staring at Ginny across the room. She was reading again, because there wasn't much else for her to do. He watched her, but his eyes were trading places with his ears. Temporary synesthesia.

He banged on the piano, just randomly at first, creating horrible, clashing chords before finding a sound that matched the way she sounded, and then finding the melody that accompanied it.

"What are you doing?" Ginny asked, coming to stand beside him.

The piano had been sitting in the corner since she had arrived, and he hadn't touched it until now.

Draco smiled. "Composing." He added the left hand in a tune he knew too well. "Can you hear it?"

"Hear what?"

The melodies clattered and clanged and warred for dominance.

"Hear what?" Ginny asked again.

"This is us, if we had a song."

"Why would we have a song?" Ginny asked warily.

Draco laughed. "I'm not hitting on you. Listen."

He played just the right hand, the higher notes. A pretty, twisting, dancing melody.

"That's me?"

He nodded. "And this one's me."

He played the left, lower notes with a driving beat. It was disjointed, slipping high then low in a parody of a melody, but there were traces of the classical composers.

He put them together again.

"We don't get along very well," said Ginny.

It was an understatement. Her rhythm scolded his to keep up, while his tried to drag her down. Her bright glissanodos' contrasted with his insistent dark notes. Her tune was joyous. His was verging on crazed. But there were times when it worked, when the melodies hit at the right moment, and spoke of potential.

He could make them fit. His tune, wild and fluid, was the easiest one to adapt. He calmed it, contained it, and it took on a life of its own. It became exciting and moving, instead of driving and overwhelming. It lifted hers up, gave it emphasis and adoration, and he stopped.

"Whose piece was that?" she asked.

"Still mine," said Draco, scowling at the keys for reminding him. "Just…before."

"I liked –,"

He crashed his hands down on the piano, cutting her off.

"Do not say you liked it better," he commanded. "It's trite and sentimental. And I'm not in the mood to be so bored by you."

"I was going to say I liked you playing," said Ginny. "You look happy when you play."

"Oh," said Draco. "Well, continue singing my praises, please."

He started again, striking up a new piece. "This was supposed to be for an orchestra," he told her. "But it takes a while to transpose and edit, and my brain gets distracted so easily."

"That's the drugs," said Ginny.

He scowled at her. "What did I just say?"

"You set yourself up for that one."

Draco frowned. "Maybe."

"You slip up more when you're high."

"Weasley."

"Sorry. Won't mention it anymore."

"Good."

"And you're really immature when you're high. Seriously, like a child, sorry. That's the last one, I swear."

He glared and then tapped his wand on the piano to keep it playing. He grabbed her hands.

"That's it."

She shrunk back, but he simply pulled her to the middle of the floor and swept her into a waltz.

She followed his lead, then after a few moments, asked, "Why are we dancing?"

"I like dancing," he said. "Sometimes, that is. Not with other people, not that you're not other people, but at parties, with onlookers, I don't like it. People not to run into, people whispering and looking. This is better. And I thought you might be less inclined to insult me to my face."

He raised an eyebrow in challenge. She smiled.

"You thought correctly. But I want you to know, this is bordering on the weird."

"I'm a mad genius and high as a Firebolt. Were you expecting normalcy?"

She laughed, and he grinned. They kept dancing.

oooo

"I swear on my wand," said Ginny, leaning forward over the lunch table. "True story."

It was funny, and she was laughing just by recalling it. Normally he would have sneered, but there was something infectious about her laughter. His lips turned up without him meaning to do so, and that was when the door opened.

"I thought you'd like her."

Draco turned in his seat, face falling blank. Voldemort stepped into the room, smiling at him indulgently.

"You were so out of sorts," he said. "And my spies knew where she would be. I thought you might bring me some tidbits of information, but I see you were otherwise occupied."

Claire stood beside Voldemort, smirking.

Draco shrugged a lazy shoulder. "What do you want to know?"

Voldemort turned to Ginny. Draco didn't expect her to show fear, he knew she wasn't the sort, but he wasn't expecting her to meet Voldemort's gaze.

"Hello, Thomas," she said. "It's been a while."

Draco stared. He looked between them, confused and uncomprehending.

"You've grown," said Voldemort.

"Yes," said Ginny.

Voldemort stepped closer, and suddenly it was as if Draco and Claire didn't exist. Suddenly, it was just Voldemort and Ginny, the way it is when a couple reunites at a train station, and everyone else is simply an onlooker.

Voldemort half-reached out to her. "Do you see how he was drawn to you, Ginevra? Do you know what did that? Do you know what called to him?"

Ginny looked away. "He was curious."

Voldemort shook his head. "No. You know it's more than that."

Draco didn't know. Draco had no idea what was going on. For the first time in his life, Draco felt as if he was simply a sub-plot to some deeper story.

Voldemort crossed to Draco, stepped behind him. Cold fingers rested on his neck. Nails scraped softly down his skin, and if Draco had not possessed such control over his body, he would have jerked away.

"He's drawn to the darkness, Ginny. Nothing more."

Ginny didn't respond. She sat, eyes downcast but Draco could see something in them spark.

There was a pause full of tension, everyone waiting.

Voldemort's hand gave Draco's shoulder a pat. "I don't need information, Dragon. She was a gift for you, for you to do as you please."

And then Voldemort left. Claire followed, clearly enraged at the lack of reprisal on Draco, but trying not to show it. The door shut behind them and silence fell.

Draco rubbed his neck. Voldemort's touch seemed to linger on his skin unpleasantly. He looked at Ginny.

"His name's not Thomas."

"No, it's not," Ginny agreed. "But he despised his Muggle father, and his mother too, for not even giving him his father's full name. She hadn't realized it was a nickname and he didn't think 'Tom' commanded any respect. It's flippant and incomplete. He wanted to be named Thomas. Wouldn't you?"

The last was said with forced cheer, but Draco waved his wand and the dishes disappeared, leaving the small table clear between them. He leaned forward.

"Why do your eyes match his?"

oooo

There was much to think about. It was another sleepless night in front of the fire, another night with a bottle of brandy, just thinking.

"You're not him," Ginny said forcefully. She was sitting up with him, curled on her own chair, knees pulled up. "Whatever he implied, it's not true. I know what he is better than anyone else, and I can promise you, you are not him."

"But I could be," said Draco. "I have that propensity."

"To enjoy torture and the pain of others? Where is the satisfaction in that?"

And it was true. He enjoyed revenge, exacting his due, but the ceaseless and indiscriminate way in which Voldemort chose his victims had no appeal.

"You could…," and here Ginny paused, hesitant. She hadn't been hesitant before, and it made him take note.

"I could?" he prompted.

"You could be worse," said Ginny. "You have that power."

He laughed, because she really had no idea.

"The thunderstorms," he said.

"It's what it was like, when he got into my head. This blast of cold and flash of fire. A force I couldn't even begin to stop and then…,"

She stopped and her hands reached up to smooth her hair. She was collecting herself even though she didn't look distraught. She hid it well.

"When I was under, everything was muted. And spells rumbled and it sounded like thunder."

He nodded, understanding. And then he got up and grabbed the syringe off his shelf. It was easy now, to tie the band around his arm, to find a vein. The thestral blood and dittany oil stung going in, burned actually, and he had to clench his jaw and squeeze his eyes shut. But it only hurt for a moment, and then he put the instruments away and staggered back to the couch.

"Do you want any?" he asked Ginny, because if ever, now would be the time.

She left for the bedroom.

oooo

"Point this at me," said Draco.

"I thought this was –,"

"It is," said Draco. "I should be able to nullify the effects, but first I need to get a reading."

"And for that I'm trying your Cruciatus machine on you."

"It won't work with an animal," said Draco testily. "I need a real, living human subject and I know you'd throw a fit if I tried bringing someone up from the dungeons."

"Why not use it on me?" Ginny asked.

And that was the million galleon question. Why not use it on her? Save him the pain of it all.

"Would you like me to?" he snapped. "Just don't think I haven't warded this place. You kill me, you're not getting out. So just pull the –,"

Pain.

His body jerked and he collapsed on the ground, a scream ripping from his throat. The pain was gone in one flash. She hadn't held it on him, not even for a second, and now she was leaning over him, hand on his head, eyes worried.

"You alright?" she asked.

Her hair slipped down over her shoulder and fell against his cheek. It was soft and silky, and she was close enough for him to feel her body heat. The adrenaline that had jumped started his heart into a furious staccato was now racing through all of his limbs. His mind was in tumult.

He surged up, capturing her lips with his own. His hands reached up and delved into her hair, tangling in the soft, curling strands. For one moment, for one earth-stopping moment, her lips parted and he drank in her warmth.

And then he was falling back with a scream as pain shot up his body. His limbs seized and his breath caught and his vision sparked with stars.

And then it was gone, just as briefly as the first time.

He gasped in a breath of relief. His muscles twitched and sweat pricked his skin. He rolled his head to the side to look at her.

For the first time, she was scared. She was still aiming the machine at him, but she had retreated. Her hands were steady, but her face was pale and tight. She was waiting for a reprimand, for retribution.

Draco turned his head back to the ceiling.

"I think a slap would have sufficed."

oooo

"You did it?"

"Don't sound so surprised," said Draco.

Ginny ignored his sarcasm and surveyed the device.

"The metal pads attract the spell," said Draco. "They create one, short burst of energy, effectively killing the pain sensors in the brain. It's specified, so there won't be any secondary damage to any other areas of the brain."

"Does it permanently damage the pain receptors?" Ginny asked.

"Yeah," said Draco. "I couldn't…well, if I were to use the same instrument – no, a direct feed wouldn't work, because it's dead matter. If I used a – no, brain tonic wouldn't – but with a dittany. No. Not that. I'd have to stimulate the –,"

"A work in progress," said Ginny. "You don't have to solve every problem now, you know. Take a moment to relax and drink in the victory. You created an anti-crucio machine."

"Yes," said Draco. "I did."

He grinned at her. She smiled back, but self-consciously. Like she was afraid he was going to kiss her again.

He rolled his eyes at her.

She blushed and laughed.

oooo

"You can't stay here," he told her one night.

"What?"

"You can't stay here. People are starting to talk, Claire mostly, but she's fucking Voldemort, so she's got some sway. I have to get rid of her, but that's another point altogether. The fact is, you are becoming a bit of a curiosity, and I'm losing face. So, I can't fake your death, because that's too obvious and doesn't work down the line when you turn up not dead. Ergo, our only option is getting you out."

He turned to her. She was staring at him, eyes wide, like she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing.

"This doesn't mean anything," he told her.

She nodded. "Of course not."

"It's just…look, I'm not bored with you around," he defended himself. "And if I win this, well, a win would be me getting everything I want – and you're part of that."

She raised her eyebrows at him in silent rebuke.

He rolled his eyes in response. "Not like that, Weasley. But, I'd rather not be bored in the world I win, and that means you have to be alive, and for you to be alive, you can't stay here. So, I'm going to have to move you to the dungeons for a night or two. Think you can handle that?"

And she did. Beautifully. He left on a trip and she escaped under a minion's watch. He came back, feigned a rage and then stormed up to his rooms.

He had solved her mystery. She was a girl with an imprint of Voldemort's soul, that was the reason she'd made no sense. He was finished with her. He could put her on the shelf with his completed experiments, and yet she continually scratched at the back of his mind.

He remembered her perfectly, but he wanted to see her again.

Seeing her was easy. He could make that happen, but seeing her wasn't enough. They weren't on the same playing field. He'd kissed her, and not just because of the adrenaline. But she didn't want to kiss him back, and that simply wasn't right, it wasn't fair. If he was going to suffer this insane and grating fascination, he wanted her to be as adversely effected as he.

And to do that, he couldn't believe he was even thinking it, but if he wanted her attentions, he'd have to help her side win the war.

He knocked back half a glass of scotch and followed it with a dose of Angel Flight. It was so much easier to admit his shameful obsession with the girl when he was half out of his mind.

oooo

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded.

Draco grinned and stared up at the building that he couldn't see, not yet. 12 Grimmauld Place.

"Did you slip out the back door when they were all in a tizzy?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Now tell me, what are you doing here?"

Draco looked at her, looked at the face that he had remembered perfectly but wasn't satisfied with a memory. It was better like this, seeing her in person. "I got bored."

"You're high."

He laughed. "Well, wouldn't you be?"

"What are you doing? Draco, please."

She was worried and afraid, and maybe just a little of that concern was for him. He grinned again.

"Isn't it obvious, Weasley? I'm defecting."

oooo

They weren't cruel to him, but their hands weren't gentle. He was restrained, searched, charmed, searched again, and then he was stripped and thrown into a shower – the best way to get rid of any harmful potions stored on the surface of his skin. The water was cold.

He was given clothes to wear, ugly, cotton garments that were too big and hung down to his fingertips and pooled at his feet. He was given socks, no shoes.

And then he was marched into the dining room and tied to the chair at the foot of the table with magical chains and charmed bonds. In the other room he could hear Ginny's voice. He wondered how well she was pleading his case.

It took only a few moments to gather the rest of the Order stationed nearby, and then Severus was there, with his Veritaserum.

Damn it, why hadn't he finished that counter to the serum?

"Going to speak on my behalf, Severus?" he asked. "Seeing how I did save your life and all."

Severus gave him a dark look and administered the potion. Draco made a face at the pungency of the potion.

"I think your potion's about to go stale," he said. "What's it got left, a week?"

The Potions Master took a seat at the table, and for a minute, all anyone did was stare.

Draco gave a winning smile, and wondered why they were even more fun to bait than Claire.

Finally, Arthur Weasley leaned forward.

"Why are you here?"

"I'm defecting," said Draco truthfully.

"But…why?"

And he sounded so much like his daughter, or maybe she had sounded like him, that Draco had to laugh. But he told them, the Veritaserum saw to that. But he only told them pieces.

He was disenchanted with the notion of blood purity. He was not a fan of Voldemort and even thought him to be creepy. He'd been covertly assisting them in the past, for his own gain to be sure, but recently he'd begun to consider his other options. He was getting tired of the whole thing and wanted it over, and while he lacked any real moral compulsion, theirs was the better side. Easier to succeed in, at least.

And if he left out the little bit about being obsessed with Ginny, well that was simply because he didn't understand it himself, and he wasn't obligated, under the potion, to speculate.

But even with the potion, they didn't believe him. So he volunteered information.

McGonagall was dead, but Draco had slipped her a suicide potion before any interrogation could begin. Nymphadora Tonks was recovering in Canada. Her ability to walk was not yet determined. Remus Lupin was lying low in Gloucestershire and they could get to him in two days because Voldemort would be moving troops.

They all stared again, and he gave them another smile. He could see it in their faces. Even if they didn't believe him, they wanted to believe him, they wanted to believe because then they'd have a chance at winning this war. And Draco knew that he was in, at least for now.

But he wasn't expecting Bill to catch his gaze, he wasn't expecting Bill to frown at him and ask, "Why don't I remember you?"

And why exactly had he given up on the counter to Veritaserum? So what if Snape had gotten farther along than he had? Right now, he needed it.

Draco shook his head and bit down hard on his lips. His body twitched and he strained against the bindings that cut into his wrists, and suddenly everyone was very interested.

"Memory charm," he gasped out, his mouth betraying him.

He should have played it cool. Should have added a shrug with that. Then that answer would have sufficed, no one would have cared further.

"What memory charm?" Bill demanded.

"Put it on you," said Draco. "End of my sixth year. You…Claire had captured you. I got you out."

"I escaped on my own," said Bill.

And that wasn't a question, so Draco stayed silent.

"Did I escape on my own?" Bill corrected.

"I rescued you."

"Why?"

Draco fought again, but the story came out in disjointed bits of retelling.

"You found out about me. That I'm smart, that I'm a genius. And you didn't tell, so I didn't tell that you were passing on information about the Death Eaters. You…you were nice to me, a friend. And I found out about Claire. I rescued you, but afterwards everyone knew you were the spy, so you could have told about me, without consequences. So…so I put a charm on you when we got out. It was a little messy, but you weren't well, you were hurt. It was faster just to take it all then try to modify your memories."

And no one quite knew what to make of it, but Draco didn't care about the others. He only cared about the red-haired man staring at him in confusion.

"But…," said Bill, "you said we were friends."

"I said you were my friend," Draco corrected harshly. "I never said I was yours."

"Weren't you?"

"I… maybe. Yes." Draco looked down. "Not anymore." And then the truth. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

Draco looked up at Bill. "I didn't know Fleur was pregnant."

Bill flinched. "What do you mean?"

"The storm," said Draco. "Its detrimental effects on those with Veela or other magical creature ties was expected, but not to the extent that the records seemed to imply. I miscalculated the effect of the time-dilation field."

"That was you?" Bill demanded, eyes dark. "That was – she died! Her and my son!"

"I didn't know," said Draco.

"You destroyed the Ministry. You injured over a hundred citizens with that storm, let Voldemort get his horcrux back, and killed my wife, because you didn't _know_?"

"I knew about the horcrux," said Draco. "Not about your wife."

There was a moment of silence, and then Bill asked, quietly, "And now? Would it make a difference now?"

He was a drug addict now. Drug addicts cared about very little, even the high functioning ones.

"No," he said.

A gasp around the table. Mutters and dark glances.

Draco laughed, because they were all so serious.

He told them so.

"Why are you here now?" Bill asked.

He wasn't the Bill whom Draco remembered. He was harder and leaner and his eyes were colder, clouded with grief.

Draco looked at him, the teacher who once tried to impress morals on him, and then at Ginny.

"I don't know," he said honestly.

oooo

Days.

It took that long for the house to drift somewhere close to normalcy, somewhere close to used to him.

It was the only time where his drug use worked in his favor. With the Death Eaters, it was a point of weakness, caving to a vice that ruled his life. With these Order members, it was an evil habit that made him unpredictable and to be treated with caution.

He spent the first three days with a map spread out before him, just thinking about all the information he knew, and how it applied to the immediate battle, and how he really needed more drugs. They may have somewhat gotten used to him, but he was not at all used to them.

On the fourth day, he demanded Angel-Flight. His head was pounding and his fingers itching and when they said no, he whirled on Hermione, neatly grabbed her wand, and stunned the lot of them.

Severus was in the basement. He had a batch already half-done.

"You're a good man," Draco told him with a twitching smile.

"You're not the man I hoped you'd be," Severus returned gravely.

"You frown too much," said Draco. "And you should wear more colors."

The Order recovered and found him there an hour later, perched on the table, helping Severus brew more Wolfsbane for Remus (whom they recovered from Gloucestershire) while he waited for his potions to finish.

"I cured Lycanthrope," Draco informed them. "It's still in its test phase, and it's only effective before the first transformation, but it looks promising."

They didn't believe him; not yet at least.

oooo

They had no reason to believe his claim of genius. He spent the first three days staring at a map, the fourth getting more drugs, and the fifth staring at the ceiling, watching images only he could see.

He listened to them mutter and discuss and generally doubt. Ginny defended him, but she was the youngest. If they were wise, they'd overlook her age and remember that this was the girl who had been possessed by Voldemort, and who had come out of it still shining as brightly as before.

But they couldn't see that, they had forgotten that.

Draco was a genius, and he never forgot. He watched her and watched Harry, and realized why she had never dated him. Harry didn't want adventure. He rose to the challenge of Voldemort, but if there had been no Voldemort, he would have reveled in the small stardom of good Quidditch players and had a family in a house in the suburbs.

Of course, if there had been no Voldemort, Ginny wouldn't have that darkness in her eyes, and then who would Draco have to fascinate him?

Now that was a sobering thought, and it sobered him enough to get off his arse and stumble down the stairs to start planning to downfall of the Death Eaters.

"These are the key locations we need to focus on," he told the few members who had come in to see what the drug-addicted Death Eater was doing now.

Those members were Ginny, Snape, and Granger. Ginny and Snape he understood, especially since Snape had suspected his genius due to his grades at Hogwarts. Hermione Granger he didn't, but maybe she was simply making sure he wasn't going to try anything.

"Why those ones?" Ginny asked.

"I'm so very glad you asked," said Draco, and proceeded to launch into a presentation on the history, geography, and importance of the sites he had circled on the maps. The lecture also included the Death Eaters currently stationed there, what sort of magical power they possessed, what their back-up would be, and what risks there were to the surrounding civilians.

About two paragraphs in, Granger stopped him to run and gather the others.

"I'm not going to repeat myself!" he shouted after her. "It's their own fault for not being here!"

But he did repeat himself, mainly because once they were all gathered, Granger pulled out a notebook and started scribbling every word she could remember. And Ginny was keeping notes as well, and Severus had an eyebrow raised, and it had been a while since people listened to what he said. The Death Eaters could never keep up and Voldemort usually wasn't interested in the science behind it all.

So he talked, and explained, and expounded, and he reveled in the way that they stared at him, were surprised and shocked by him. He started including cost estimates of each battle and a few logistic points, just because he could. So what if he was showing off?

He talked for three hours straight, then needed a glass of wine to ease his throat. He drank three, and then while imparting to them the standard Death Eater response to an attack, suddenly saw the mechanics of an Apparation machine – a delayed hallucination from the Angel-Flight.

So, he veered the subject into a lecture on theoretical physics and advanced Apparation, and how, if such a machine was ever created, it was possible for it to be powered by nuclear fission and no magic what so ever, and they stared some more at him until Severus forced a weakened sleep-aid down his throat, which slowed his brain down enough to concentrate on the task at hand.

On day eight, Draco started writing out the entire list of current Death Eaters and the crimes they had committed.

oooo

"Why not?" Draco asked Ginny as she turned away from him. "I'm here. Isn't that what you wanted?"

They were alone in the small study tucked in the back of the house. Draco had claimed it, and it was beginning to resemble his old laboratory, except much smaller.

"I want a lot of things," said Ginny.

"I can do a lot of things," said Draco. "Make a lot of things. What do you want?"

Ginny laughed. "If I said the moon, you'd get it for me, wouldn't you?"

She was trying to deflect him with humor, but Draco wasn't going to be deterred. Not this time. He'd defected for her, or rather, she was the catalyst to his involvement with the Order. He had a feeling he might have always been drifting their way.

"Why not?" he asked.

"How could I?" she returned. "You caused the death of my sister-in-law and her unborn nephew."

Draco looked away. There was a twinge in his chest every time he remembered the storm and hearing the news that Fleur Weasley and her unborn son had died.

"I didn't know," he said, but his excuse was wearing thin.

"You didn't have to know," said Ginny. "You knew that innocent people could die."

"It was a calculated measure. The risk was acceptable," Draco argued.

"For who?" Ginny asked.

"You know what I was able to do with the horcrux," said Draco. He'd tainted it, before Voldemort had been able to reabsorb its power. It'd been easy to do. The time behind the Veil had altered it, left it susceptible to physical harm and manipulation. Voldemort had been weakened, not strengthened by the horcrux.

"Does the end justify the means?" Ginny argued.

Draco rolled his eyes, because it was predictable.

She shook her head and moved away. "Do you know what I want?" she asked.

"What?" Draco asked.

"I want Ron back, and I want Charlie back. Two of my brothers are dead because of this stupid war. A war that you could have been helping us win."

"I saved Percy," said Draco.

"And Hogwarts was destroyed. Dumbledore gone, McGonagall gone. Nearly all of the Aurors. Hermione's parents. Luna Lovegood. Blaise Zabini."

"I warned him," said Draco.

"And all of the others," said Ginny. "The Dark Revels and those poor souls in your family's dungeons, being tortured. That stupid Cruciatus machine."

Draco stepped forward, anger sparking. "I fixed that," he said. "I fixed it for you!"

"You shouldn't have built it in the first place."

"Not everyone abides by your morals," said Draco. "Not everyone grew up with your sense of good and evil. I'm here now, though. Doesn't that count?"

"You're a genius," said Ginny. "You should have discovered a conscience years ago, or at least created one, since you're so smart."

"It's not that simple," said Draco.

"Yes," said Ginny, looking him in the eye. "It is."

oooo

"Wait, just one minute," said Bill, and he rummaged through the file folder.

Bill didn't look at him. Hardly ever looked at him, even though now they were stuck together.

And Draco felt guilty for that on top of everything else. But really, this wasn't his fault. He didn't need a babysitter, but they didn't trust him. Didn't even allow him a wand.

He tried to discourage the guard. Everyone else was so easy to annoy, so easy to rile and drive away with words alone.

Mr. Weasley got angry, and it wasn't good for his health. He was still recovering from a recent skirmish. And he refused to let his wife alone with Draco, due to the profanities that left his mouth, and his casual disregard for human life. Kingsley was goaded and baited with listing all of the stupid plans the Aurors had made, and how it ultimately led to their downfall. Remus Lupin was subtly reminded of his dead friends and his ailing girlfriend, Tonks, still in Canada.

Fred and George were surprisingly fun to be around. Draco recognized bits of genius in their mad methods of invention. He'd been nice to them, and witty, and full of ideas to modify their existing creations, and together they'd nearly burnt the house down. They hadn't been allowed near him since.

Potter was boring, and Draco couldn't really be cruel to the boy-hero, because he was the one that was going to have to end this whole thing. Luckily where Potter went, Granger followed, and she was all too easy to rile up.

Only Snape remained impervious. And Ginny, but her family hardly approved of her hanging about him, even despite the fact that he'd been the perfect gentleman to her while she was his prisoner.

But Snape didn't have infinite patience, and he was busy himself, and Draco had just thought that he'd finally gotten free of his guards when Bill had stepped into the study, notebook and quill in hand. Bill's face had been tight and full of determination. He'd looked like a martyr being led to the dragons.

And he was the one person Draco hadn't been able to be cruel to. Not when he'd already destroyed everything that Bill held dear.

So Bill was the one who stayed, the one that followed him around, ready to take notes whenever new inspiration hit, all while making sure he didn't escape or turn on them. And it was obvious that Bill hated it. And it was uncomfortable.

But Bill had also been the only one smart enough to set up a filing system. Now, if Draco referenced a certain plan of attack, location, or artifact they'd need, Bill was able to locate the parchment and have all of the information they needed, instead of having Draco continually repeat himself because no one else could keep up with him.

Draco sighed, but waited for Bill to pull out the parchment. His fingers drummed on the table and his leg jounced up and down with agitated energy.

He needed another dose soon. He'd upped it, but really who could blame him? He was working in a hostile environment, working with a man who wouldn't even look at him and radiated disgust and condemnation and smothering misery. And none of the Order were any easier to be around. Raising his baseline to twice a week was the only way to keep him from running away, was the only comfort he received in this house.

"Do you have to do that?" Bill snapped, casting a glare at his fingers.

Draco stopped and curled his hand into a fist. His hand shook with the effort of keeping still.

"If it's the drugs, you should just stop taking them," said Bill.

"Not just the drugs. I'm naturally hyperactive," Draco defended himself. "Although…it could just be a side effect of the drugs the first time around. They don't react well with developing brains."

Bill pulled out the parchment he was looking for, and then turned his head to Draco, even though his eyes were looking away.

"The first time," he said. "Was that…did your mother have anything to do with it?"

"You shouldn't remember that," Draco scolded. "Do you have any allergies to winseed? There's a correlation between immunity to memory spells and winseed allergies."

"No," said Bill. "It was…it's a disturbing idea, about your mother drugging you."

"Emotional ties," said Draco, screwing up his face. "Can't erase those."

"You could," said Bill with bitter envy. "Didn't seem to have a problem with it in fact."

And the words cut deep, momentarily pulling Draco up short. He couldn't think of anything to say, so he turned back to the task at hand, deploying a rag-tag group of troops to London.

oooo

But while Bill couldn't look at Draco, and while he hated following him around, Bill seemed to take responsibility for him.

There was a week where Draco didn't sleep. The war was starting again, this time in earnest, and this time the Order was winning. They were fighting with civilians mostly, and Draco had to take that into account with all of his battle plans.

It took a lot of thought. He needed to know what spells would be useful against the defenses of the Death Eaters, but also which spells the resistance would be capable of casting. He developed bombs with Fred and George and bursting potions with Snape. He looked over the resources they had stockpiled, and started teaching the Order members how to repair flying carpets and broomsticks.

He read all of the incoming information and tried to stay five steps ahead of Voldemort. Usually, he only managed to keep one step ahead. It kept Voldemort pressed back, kept him on the defensive, but none of the victories were decisive. None of them were the turning point.

And it kept him up, kept him moving. He knocked back as many stimulants as Snape would let him, and sat at the table, and watched all of the information coming in, and tried to sort it into something that made sense.

Five days into his vigil, Mrs. Weasley started to take note. She suggested he get some rest. On day six, Draco finally started to notice some of the looks he was getting. On day seven, Severus slipped him a sleep aid that left him reeling. He would have fallen right out of his chair, but Bill pulled him up and walked him to bed.

And Bill was there when he woke ten hours later, in the middle of the night. And Bill followed him back down to the study, notebook in hand, ready to take notes.

Perhaps that was why Draco paused in the middle of outlining a way to get reinforcements to the group stranded somewhere in Wales, and said, "Syrian runes. We worked on them together, my sixth year."

"You were talking about using brooms," said Bill. "Why brooms and not the carpets?"

"You yelled at me once," Draco said. "You felt bad afterwards and apologized. I didn't want to listen."

"Brooms," said Bill. "How many will we need to get the supplies out?"

"I finally forgave you," said Draco.

"Is that what you want me to do?" Bill asked, letting the papers drop to the table. And he finally looked at him, full on. "Do you want me to simply say, 'hey, it's alright that the storm you created killed my wife and child'?"

"No," said Draco.

"Then what is it you want?"

Draco shrugged and trailed a hand along the table. "Just thought you might want to know."

"I don't," said Bill. "You got that?"

Draco nodded and then smiled. "Yeah, I got it, Professor."

Bill looked down at the pages. "Who were you talking about?"

Draco shrugged. "Forgot. I feel a little dizzy. And the colors aren't bright anymore. Can you get me a glass of wine?"

"Unbelievable," said Bill.

He left.

Draco got his own glass of wine, and took the bottle as well.

oooo

They finally gave him back his wand and took him along with them during a particularly tricky battle. They were trying to get into the Goyle's estate.

The mansion was a veritable fortress, but claiming it meant they'd have a safe place to strike from. There were three other estates nearby, ones held by Death Eater families. They needed this one for their launch point. It would also be useful as supply storage and as a haven for those who were injured or rescued.

But first they needed to get into it, and that's why Draco went along.

It had been Snape's idea, and so Snape was watching him. And so when they hunkered down in the forest outside the stone castle, and when the spies deployed to get a better look at what they were dealing with, Draco turned to Snape and said, "You realize I could get in and clear the whole thing in less than an hour, right?"

"You realize that if you die, we've lost our only advantage, right?" Snape countered, mocking his nonchalant tone.

"I won't die," said Draco.

Snape sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What do you need?"

"A distraction," said Draco. "At the back gate. In ten minutes."

"Do I want to know what you're going to do?" Snape asked.

"Ring the doorbell," said Draco.

And he did. He rang the bell at the gate, and when a lackey was sent, and recognized him, Draco staggered into his arms like he was mortally injured after escaping from the 'evil' clutches of the Order. He was hurriedly brought in, and that was when the back gate exploded, and during the confusion, Draco was able to take out most of the Death Eaters right then and there.

But Bellatrix was visiting, and she caught on quickly. They had a showdown in the Goyle's ballroom, and if it had simply been Bellatrix, it would have been over in a matter of minutes because his aunt was good, but she was also crazy and over-confidant. But she had others with her, and the battle was fierce.

Draco had been over to Goyle's house before, and he remembered the layout perfectly. He remembered the suits of armor kept in the hall, cast an animation spell, and used the empty knights to keep the other Death Eaters at bay while he fought his aunt.

She got off a rather nasty spell that sliced up his chest, and he allowed his fingers to drop his wand and slowly sank to his knees. She could never resist a helpless victim and went in for the kill.

He raised his hand, yelled "Sword!", and one of his hollow knights tossed him a blade. There were none so loyal as those that lacked a brain, and he stabbed his aunt through the heart.

He could have simply disabled her, and kept her prisoner, but she was the kind of sick that no one ever recovers from, and even in a cell, she'd be a threat. So she had to die for practicality's sake, and then he finished off the rest of the other Death Eaters, not going out of his way to kill them, but some did die, and he felt no remorse.

Forty-eight minutes later, he strode out the front door to open the gate. He knew he looked a mess. His shirt was soaked through with blood, and he was still holding onto his sword, but he felt good. Really good. Adrenaline was its own high, and he grinned triumphantly as he unlocked the gate for his shocked audience.

"I'm a fucking genius," he announced, except it came out in French, and none of them understood what he was saying.

And then, embarrassingly, he passed out, because apparently his aunt got him better than he realized.

oooo

He spent three days in bed. Three because he stupidly took a dose of Angel-Flight on the first day, and blood loss and heavy drugs aren't the best mix. But Snape gave it to him, the sneaky devil, and it kept him flat on his back, recovering while he watched the world spin and images dance and old ghosts come back to haunt him.

On the fourth day, he walked stiffly down to the kitchen and stared at the ever-revising map he'd hung on the wall. It recorded troop movements and supply drops and the assumed position of the enemy.

Draco accepted the coffee that Mrs. Weasley tentatively offered him, and continued staring for a full three hours.

"Well?" Snape finally asked.

Draco blinked, and then realized that the Order had gathered, ready for another plan.

"Right," he said.

The plan that came to mind wasn't a good one, but it was the best he had to offer. He rubbed at his head, blinked through a haze of colors, and shook his head to get the music out of his ears.

"There," he said, finally locating the river he wanted. "Rivers are useful, especially where there are dryads to use."

"Dryads don't like to become involved in human wars," said Lupin.

"It's a little more than a human war," said Draco. "But we will need an incentive."

But that was easy enough; it was the rest of the plan that seemed off.

He rubbed his head again. "Shit," he swore. "I can't think."

"You haven't fully recovered yet," said Mrs. Weasley, quite kindly. "Maybe we should take a break."

"It's my head that needs to work, not the rest of me," said Draco. "I need a drink."

"Is that wise?" asked Shacklebolt. "On top of all the rest?"

"Done it before," said Draco. "Haven't died yet."

He scrubbed at his face and forced his brain to turn over. "We're not limited by geography," he said. "So we don't have to worry about taking Pelham just yet. And we are going to need to get London sometime before the winter."

"How?" asked Lupin.

"I'm thinking," said Draco.

There was silence.

"What if we-," Lupin started.

"No," said Draco. "An infiltration is too obvious."

"The Ministry-," said Arthur.

"Wouldn't do us any good except in morale, and that isn't going to win this war alone. All of your ideas are stupid, so just stop thinking because your idiocy is distracting."

Silence again.

Snape got up and poured him a glass of wine.

"Thanks," said Draco. He downed the glass without stopping to breathe, and then handed it off for a refill. The tension released slowly, but it didn't help his clarity. He muddled through, came up with a halfway decent plan that would only result in twenty or so casualties on their side, and said it was the best he could do on such short notice.

But the twenty casualties turned out to be fifty, and he saw the reason why the next morning.

"Two ogres," said Snape.

"Shit," said Draco.

"You couldn't have known," said Mr. Weasley.

But he should have.

"I visited, when I was a child," Draco told them. "The evidence was obvious. Of course they had ogres."

"It's an easy thing to miss," said Snape. "You're not going to remember everything."

"But I do!" Draco snapped. "I'm a bloody genius. I remember everything."

"Then how did you miss this?" Snape asked.

Draco started to answer, but cut himself off. "Damn you," he said instead.

Snape smirked.

"What?" asked Shacklebolt.

Draco sighed and dropped his hands to the table. "My head hurts and I need to detox."

No one said anything, and then Bill spoke up.

"Is it safe?"

"Done it before," said Draco tiredly. "I just need a room. With a lock."

"Sobriety obviously didn't take," said Kingsley.

"Took for ten years," Draco shot back.

They did the math in their heads. He could practically see them finding the numbers. He pushed himself to his feet.

"What's a thirteen year old doing on Angel-Flight?" Arthur asked.

"Having a good time," Draco snapped.

"How does a child get his hands on that type of drug?" Arthur asked.

"Drugged by his mother," said Draco, because he didn't care anymore if they knew. "No one wants a child hanging around during a week of parties."

He left. Bill followed.

"Don't feel beholden," he informed the ex-professor at his door. "You don't have to act upon events you don't remember."

"I'm not," Bill told him flatly. "I need your wand."

Draco laughed, impressed. Something stung inside. "Here," he said, handing his wand over. "Just when I earned it back, too."

Bill said nothing. Draco gestured to the room. "Take the rest of the stuff out, won't you? And get me a vanishing bucket. And bottles of water."

Bill cleared the room, not that there was much in the way of décor to begin with.

"The blankets okay to leave in?"

"Yes. Give me the option to strangle myself if it gets that bad," said Draco. "You might want to cast a silencing charm on the door. Oh, and on the third day, I'll need food. Bread and something bland."

Bill nodded. "You sure about this?"

Draco grinned. "See, you do care."

He laughed and spun into the room and slammed the door shut before he could change his mind. He heard the locking charm and then flopped onto the bed. He stared at the ceiling. What had he done?

oooo

Pain.

Desire.

Need.

Pain.

He screamed into the pillow and would have cried if he could.

He banged on the door, because he had changed his mind, but it stayed shut. They couldn't even hear him.

His body seized and trembled and shook. He retched and sweated and bled where his nails dug into his palms.

Pain.

Need.

Desire.

Exhaustion.

oooo

"I see you didn't strangle yourself," said Bill.

Draco cracked open an eye, and then eased himself up on the bed. He winced when his feet touched the floor. The contact seemed to echo up into his head. He was shaking again. Not from need, but because his muscles were overworked and limp from the seizures.

"And no, I wouldn't have cared either way," Bill continued.

It was a joke, but it wasn't quite one.

"Don't," said Draco. "_Please_."

His voice was hoarse, because he'd been screaming. And it was weak. And just a little weary. More than weary though.

Bill looked startled, and then he squinted into the dim light.

"You okay?" he asked.

And there it was. That genuine concern that had started their friendship in the first place. It wasn't a lot, just the smallest amount. But Draco heard it.

He wondered why it made him feel worse.

"No," said Draco. "Just leave the tray." He lay back on the bed and shivered, a full body spasm.

There was movement. He heard the tray being set on the dresser, and then footsteps towards him.

"You look awful," said Bill. "How are you feeling? Over the worst of it?"

"Yes," said Draco.

The tremors worsened. The bed rocked and he curled up on his side, facing away from Bill.

"There's soup," said Bill. "Some bread and some water. I'll give you a few hours. Warming spells on the soup, so don't eat now if you can't keep it down."

The footsteps receded.

"The dishes won't shatter, if you try to break them," Bill said in parting. "I wasn't sure if you were serious about the sheets. Didn't want to give you too many options to off yourself with."

It was one of the kindest things anyone had done for him in a long while.

oooo

He wondered what he looked like, walking down the stairs a week later. Walking, not sprinting or tripping. He felt exposed. The drugs had been such a perfect armor. Nothing could be taken seriously while high. Nothing could hurt, nothing could worry him.

Well, that wasn't true. He'd begun to worry. That was why he was off them now.

And conversation was awkward. While drugged up, he'd talked quite frequently and glibly. Now he made his way into the parlor and there was silence.

"You okay, kid?"

Draco sat down in his chair and looked over at Kingsley. The Auror was leaning forward on the table, his eyes oddly intent.

"Fine," said Draco.

He was anything but. They all knew it.

Not that they cared enough to call him on it.

"We've been looking at this wrong," said Draco. "I've been looking at this wrong. There are options we need to consider."

oooo

It wasn't worse when he was sober.

He was constantly cold, and his hands trembled on occasion. He wore several of the over-sized shirts he was given. He felt nauseous at the smell and sight of food, even though hunger pains shot through his stomach. His head ached dully. Sometimes it throbbed and he had to stop and close his eyes.

But it wasn't worse.

Suddenly, instead of a drug-addicted, smug and raucous Death Eater, he was someone to be pitied. He wondered how bad he looked to have Mrs. Weasley bringing him specially prepared meals, or for Hermione Granger to toss him a blanket when he started shivering.

He wondered if Ginny had been talking, and knew she had when Mr. Weasley brought him a mug of tea and thanked him for Percy.

oooo

"Why?" he asked Ginny.

They were alone and it was late. She looked tired and her eyes were heavy.

"You know why," she said, ducking her head to smooth the page she was reading.

He did know, but it wasn't fair.

"How was I to know?" he demanded of her, leaning forward, feeling stronger with his ire. "I told you about Narcissa, and you must know about Lucius. How was I supposed to come out of that with any sense of morality?"

"You're a genius," she said.

"And I'm fixing it now. Or are you going to hold my past over my head for the rest of my life?"

"It's not just your past," she said. "I could love you despite that."

"Then what is it?"

She looked at him, and the answer was in her eyes.

"Because you had a chance, and you threw it away," she said. "You talked about Bill. That was your way out and you let it slip by. No, you deliberately sabotaged your chance at getting out."

Draco fell back against the chair. He wasn't accustomed to defeat, and yet, there was no way he'd win this one.

"I can't be plagued by the thought that you're grasping at me to be your second chance. And I can't-," her voice broke. She was blinking back tears. Because of him. "I can't be with someone who would let salvation slip away."

"I wasn't letting it go," Draco tried to protest. "I thought that this was the better way."

"Ever since…ever since Thomas, I fight against his presence nearly every day. I can't pull you up with me, Draco. I need someone who's battling on his own. I wouldn't mind lending my strength every now and then, but I can't save you, do you understand?"

He did.

And he realized that he'd been too late.

oooo

"It's not working," said Draco, rubbing his face.

"What's not working?" asked Kingsley.

"Can I get you anything?" asked Mr. Weasley.

It was funny and he wanted to laugh. If he was still high, he would have. But instead he shook his head.

"I just have a headache. I think I need to lie down for awhile."

But it wasn't the headache. He'd simply realized that the whole thing had spiraled beyond his control. He could end this war, to be sure. But the cost was going to be astronomical. There were casualties he couldn't avoid and the end result would be grim.

It wouldn't have bothered him half a year ago. But that was then. Before Ginny.

Instead of going to his room, he detoured by Bill's. The door was open. Bill was inside, sitting in a chair, a picture in his hands. Draco didn't need to be a genius to know whose it was.

"I didn't know," he told his former professor.

"You said that wouldn't have changed anything," said Bill.

"You said, 'And now? Would it make a difference now?' Bill, I was high when you asked me that. Of course it wasn't going to make a difference." Draco shook his head. "But I wasn't using then. I started after I found out."

The news of Fleur had been the last straw. He had already started to lose himself, lose his focus and meaning. Her death had shown him his failure, pushed him over the edge.

"I would have changed it, if I'd known," said Draco.

He turned, his farewell speech finished. There were other things he wanted to say, but they didn't seem important now.

"Draco."

He stopped and turned. Bill was looking up.

"I can see…I can see why we would have been friends. Back then."

oooo

He stopped by Ginny's room.

"How's it going?" she asked.

Her tone was friendly, like last night hadn't happened. It was one of the reasons he liked her.

"It's too late," he told her.

She glanced away, knowing what he meant.

"It's going to be ugly," she said.

"Maybe," he said.

Her eyes flicked to his face.

"What are you planning?" she asked.

"You were right," he told her. "When you said I let it slip away. Every regret I have would be fixed by fixing one point in time."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm not ever going to be the man you want to kiss, am I?" he asked her.

"Draco, what are you-,"

"Answer the question, Ginny. Are you ever going to want to kiss me? Are you ever going to see past what I did, who I am?"

Her eyes closed, and she shook her head. A tear slipped down her cheek. It was trite. He wished he could at least hate that about her.

"No," she said out of pale lips. "I won't ever want to kiss you."

"You will," he said. Her eyes opened. He met her gaze. "One day you'll want to kiss me."

"What are you going to do?"

"You know."

"You can't. You can't change the past."

"Of course I can."

"The force of competing with a timeline already in place would tear you apart."

"I'm a genius, remember?"

"You can't –,"

She stopped because he held his wand in his hand.

"Draco –,"

He shook his head. "I'm going to prove you wrong," he told her.

He Apparated.

Breaking into the Ministry was no trouble. Getting a Time-Turner was easier still.

oooo

The trick to fighting with a timeline is to relax. Of course, the pressure on the body and the mind, of rewriting history, is so enormous and engulfing, it's impossible to do so naturally.

So Draco knocked back two doses of Angel-Flight before he flipped the Turner.

He knew the exact date and the exact location, and he dropped into the dungeon and stunned the torturer with very little effort.

Bill was bleeding out on the floor. Draco performed several dark healing curses and finally understood why Bill had been in such (relatively) good condition when he'd rescued him from the Death Eaters at the end of his sixth year. Because he'd already been there.

He knelt beside the professor and tapped his face.

"Come on, Bill. Wake up. We have to get out before I come along."

He wondered what his past self would say if he caught his future self there and laughed. Oh, the conversations he could have. If he nearly succeeded in winning a war all by himself, imagine what the two of them could do. Of course, they'd have to trade off their sober days.

He laughed again, unsteadily, because time was whipping around his head, like a sandstorm, trying strip away layers of him, to erode him back into nothing, to let things happen the way they were before. But he didn't care. He was too high.

"Draco?"

That was Bill, blinking up at him, confused and in pain, but his eyes weren't shadowed with grief.

"Bill," he grinned, because this was Bill, not the shell of the man he'd seen at the Order. "You do not know how good it is to see the real you."

Bill frowned. "You're …Lord Draco?"

He froze. "What did you call me?" he demanded. Bill shouldn't know that's what he was called in the future. It hadn't happened yet. He hadn't become Voldemort's second in command yet.

"Why are you…?" Bill asked, trailing off. "Is there a boggart here?"

"A boggart?" Draco asked. "I don't have a boggart."

"You're the boggart," said Bill, blinking again. "You're Draco's boggart."

"I can't be," said Draco. "I just got here." And he didn't have a boggart.

But he was working backwards now. By going back in time, he had already insured that whatever changes he was going to make, had already taken effect. His future was this new Draco's past, and if he knew what the past consisted of, well, he could make that happen.

And Bill knew him, knew this version of him. How? And what boggart?

"Bill, what do you know about me?" he demanded.

"You're a boggart," said Bill.

"Yes, but what else? When did I – when did Draco first see me?"

"He was young," said Bill. "He said he was thinking about taking over the world and realized he could."

He remembered that day perfectly. Of course he did, he was a genius.

"He scared himself, with what he could do…what he could become. The drugs were…after Narcissa."

Draco stared, and blinked, and then stared again. He suddenly realized what he had to do. He wasn't going to save Bill. Instead, he was going to save himself. What was it Ginny had said? Everyone needed a fear.

"Hold on," Draco told Bill. "I'll be coming along in a few moments."

"Okay," said Bill. His eyes weren't clear. He'd think this was all a dream when it was over.

"Bill," said Draco. "This is important. After I rescue you, I'm going to get scared. We'll get to a cabin in the woods. I'll try to obliviate you. Don't let me, okay? If you see me acting strangely, get ready to stun me, understand?"

Bill nodded.

"Good," said Draco.

He got to his feet and flipped the Turner again.

oooo

He appeared in the manor. Wind whipped around him. Not a real wind, but Time. It was screaming at him, scouring at him. Pulling him away. He'd already changed the future. Not enough, not yet, but enough to mean that he shouldn't exist anymore, not this incarnation of himself at least.

His form was flicker. His limbs were disappearing into the black of nothing. He was fading and drifting.

But he held on. He staggered into the music room. Where had that boggart been?

The organ bench.

He found it, tried to open it. His hands passed through the wood and sank into something warm and silky. He was touching the boggart and here, here inside the creature, Time seemed to quiet. After all, Time couldn't erase Fear.

He let himself sink into the bench, into the boggart inside. He wrapped himself in the grey mist. He couldn't fit inside, not entirely. And Time was trying to eat away all that was still exposed.

He would have to shrink himself. He had to fold up some of his mind and push it under, deep under, but that was alright, because there was a presence inside the boggart. A kind of connection, a kind of collective consciousness, that meant he could store himself there. And he didn't need much on the surface. He only needed enough to be frightening.

He hoped he would wake completely one day. If he had enough power, he just might be able to do it, but for now, he was just the fear.

Lord Draco.

He laughed, because he truly was his own worst nightmare.

-Fin-


End file.
